The Final Fate of William the Bloody
by Tycho
Summary: As the title says, in the not too distant future. A few spoilers for the end of season 6. This is the first of two chapters.


The Final Fate of William the Bloody.  
by Tycho.  
Contact: tychocelchu@optusnet.com.au  
Rating: PG  
Pairing: S/B  
Summary: As the title says, in the not too distant future. A few spoilers for the end of season 6.  
  
Disclaimer: If Joss wants it, he can have it. They're his after all.

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Pale moonlight shone through branches and leaves, dappling the three figures in shades of indigo and white. The only sounds in the forest were made by two of these three - the third being unconscious and not making any sound at all. Nor were there any sound emanating from within the dense mix of trees and shrubs, for everything living (and a number of things that weren't) had fled the forest long ago. They knew that death had come to their woodland home, and none wanted to stay and greet it.

Occasionally the silence was broken by sounds from the distant northern ridge. Bloodcurdling howls that rent the predawn air and sent chills of fear down the spine. These cries and the creatures that formed them were what had emptied the forest of life. Even the trees themselves seemed ready to pull up roots and depart for a safer locale. The fugitives new these cries and what caused them: Hellhounds on the scent of prey.

One of the three figures paused and turned northward, scanning the shadowed horizon. Intense eyes darted and searched beneath an unruly mop of brown hair that was graying at the temples. His faded blue jeans and once gray t-shirt were torn and bloodied. On his feet a pair of cracked old boots from the now defunct Doc Martin shoe company creaked with each shift in his body weight. Only the ancient black leather duster he wore was undamaged. How, considering its age, he didn't know. All he knew was that it was a gift from the woman he carried on his back.

The woman appeared to be the same age as the man who carried her, but an observer could easily believe that they came from entirely different backgrounds. Her once stylish business suit was now spattered with mud and leaves, and the matching heels had been lost hours ago. Light brown hair was knotted at the nape of her neck were it had once been elaborately arranged, allowing full view of the silver crosses dangling from her delicate ears. The sparkled when struck by the sparse moonlight. Pain briefly penetrated the fog in her mind as her bearer turned back to their other companion and shifted his grip on the precious burden he carried.

"They're getting closer." Near despair could be heard amidst the fatigue in his voice.

"I know." The last of the three looked past her companion to the ridge, searching it with far more complex and powerful senses. Although she appeared younger than he by several decades, she was in fact more than a century his senior. A simple white gown was draped about her slim form, but in such a way as to highlight her ample feminine attributes, and her feet were bare, yet unharmed by the rough ground over which they traveled. She brushed a chocolate brown lock of hair from her eyes, the only visible sign of her own fatigue. "There. By that tall pine."

"We aren't going to make it, are we?"

"They'll reach us in half an hour."

The man looked up at the slowly brightening sky and he grimaced in frustration. "Which is about ten minutes too early. Damn it!"

"No. Not even you could last that long against a pack. Hell, it took you an hour just to kill one. And your wardrobe didn't fare too well either. All we can do is press on and hope." The Guide turned and began to once more lead their party through the trees.

The Destroyer marched up and matched her speed. But never her stride, for she seemed to float along the uneven ground that made up the forest floor. "Hope? For what? A miracle? Sorry to break it too you, but our last hope of a miracle died with the sorceress. You remember her don't you? My wife?" He struggled to hold back tears and rage at the memory of his beloved's violent passing just hours before. Finally he said, "Hope is dead."

The Guide spun around, her mouth open and ready to strip up one side and down the other with the rough edge of her tongue. He was dangerously close to giving up. To giving in to despair. If that happened, the world would end.

She never got the chance, someone beat her to it.

"Someone important once told me: 'When everything else is shadows and dust, all you have left is hope.'" Up in the trees, lounging like the predator he was, a black clad figure addressed them. "Any Champion who says otherwise," he seemed to fall from that perilous height, only to land smoothly on the balls of his feet, "Was never a Scooby."

The fugitives took in the appearance of the newcomer while recovering from the suddenness of arrival. Black leather seemed to be the theme of his outfit - combat boots, pants and gauntlets - all made from the finest dyed cow hide. A thin black polo neck finished it off. Only one weapon could be seen dangling from the belt of the interloper, a peculiar looking double crossbow made from silver inlaid ebony. A quarrel of bolts was strapped to the opposite leg. Piercing blue eyes watched them from beneath slick platinum hair.

The Guide began to rub her forehead as if trying to forestall a headache. "Spike."


End file.
